A Moose's Close Shave
by notmousse
Summary: Following a werewolf attack, Dean cares for Sam's injuries while their father is concerned only with venting his anger and frustration upon them. (pre-season 1)


Dean blinked stupidly, horrified, frozen to the spot by what he was seeing. It took a few seconds for his instincts to kick into gear. The werewolf had Sam in an iron grip, cruel hooked claws digging into his flesh. Razor sharp teeth flashed and descended. Sam wriggled, trying to yank himself free, yelling, but the werewolf's jaws closed down on his skull and ripped a chunk of hair and skin free in an instant. Hot red blood misted the hair. Dean propelled himself forward with a roar, knife in hand, and lunged at the werewolf. Snarling, it released Sam and turned on Dean. Dean slashed wildly at it with his knife, fury in every movement. Vaguely he was aware of Sam in the corner of his vision, slumped on the ground. With one quick movement, Dean ducked past the werewolf's flailing arms and rammed hard into its stomach, sliding the knife up and into its ribcage. He twisted and the werewolf howled in pain. It leapt backward, clutching its side, pain in its eyes. Breathing heavily, Dean watched as it turned and ran, blood dripping from the knife and his forearm to form a small puddle on the floor.

From somewhere to his left he heard a shout and turned to see their father run towards him. John Winchester's eyes flashed, looking from Dean to where the werewolf had disappeared. Rage appeared in his face. Dean braced himself but his father only turned to look at Sam.

"Help me with him," he growled, pocketing his gun and moving over to where Sam lay.

Obediently, Dean took one of Sam's arms, resting it over his shoulder and helping him up as their father took the other side. Looking him over, Dean saw that the blood from his head wound was not bleeding any longer but that the werewolf's claws had torn deeply into his left bicep. He felt Sam's blood dribble onto his neck, warm and sticky.

They carried him to the Impala, resting him down in the back seat. Dean sat with him, a hand pressed over Sam's arm as John accelerated onto the road. Sam's eyelids flickered as he swam in and out of consciousness. Dean's face remained resolute and hard as they drove through the night, determined not to let his worry show. They arrived at the motel, hurriedly struggling Sam to the door and lifting his limp body onto one of the beds. Dean immediately went to the duffle bag, grapping a roll of bandages, and began to wrap Sam's arm. John appeared and threw a glass of water into Sam's face. Sam spluttered and his eyes opened, coughing.

"You IMBECILE!" John yelled in a frenzy. "If the thing has you, you damn bloody shoot it!"

Sam just closed his eyes and tried to breathe. Dean stood up, incredulous.

"It had his gun arm!" he defended angrily.

"Do you think that's gonna matter to a werewolf when all it wants is to tear your face off?!" John screamed, towering over him. Dean was terrified but refused to show a sign.

"I didn't see you doing anything t–"

"Couldn't get a clear shot 'cos Sammie here was dancing with it like the sugar plum fairy!"

A fire rose in John's eyes, nostrils flaring, and Dean knew better than to push any further. He backed off and was silent, though his face remained defiant. His father threw his knapsack down onto floor and headed for the door.

"Where are yo–"

"Got a werewolf to take care off since my useless son didn't finish the job," John said over his shoulder. The door slammed behind him and the rumble of the Impala disappeared away.

Dean turned back to the bed, trembling with anger and adrenaline. He resumed wrapping Sam's arm. The bleeding hadn't stopped. Sam opened his eyes and stared at Dean.

"It's gonna need stitches."

"I know," Dean growled. His words came out more harshly than he intended and he silently berated himself for it. "The bleeding has to stop." He tightened the bandage and Sam winced.

"Let me see your head," Dean grunted, moving Sam's head to look at the wound the werewolf's teeth had left there. Sam protested, yelping in pain.

"Sorry," Dean said, more gently this time. Sam turned onto his side, a pained expression on his face as Dean looked at the missing chunk of skin and hair. The wound wasn't as bad as it had looked. An inch in diameter, a glimpse of bone showing through the broken skin and blood-matted clumps of hair, the wound looked as though the werewolf's jaws had only closed down on hair, yanking a patch free. Dean sighed in relief.

"It didn't bite you."

He reached for the antiseptic solution on the bedside table and unscrewed the cap with his teeth, one hand gripped tightly over Sam's wrist. Sam stifled a yell and scrunched his eyes tight, teeth gritted in agony as Dean mopped the wound with the solution. Dean kept a hand over his wrist to stop him struggling until the burn subsided.

* * *

Sam awoke with a start. Daylight flooded through the open curtains and he blinked his eyes. A thick, heavy pain throbbed from his left arm and he looked down to see it stitched up, swollen and red. A sharper pain came from his scalp over his eye. He went to feel it with tentative fingers and touching bandage, he withdrew his hand, squinting in pain.

"Alive?" A gruff voice came from above him. Sam looked to see his father standing over him. He was wiping a knife with an old cloth.

Sam nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Good, we're leaving in an hour, cattle deaths reported north of here." His father walked away towards the bathroom.

"You're gonna be OK," Dean's voice came from the other side of the bed. "Don't freak out when you look in the mirror though – Dad made me cut your hair so that –" he gestured to the wound on Sam's head "– doesn't look so obvious."

Sam looked at him blankly. Dean look for any sign of emotion but found nothing. He cleared his throat.

"I sewed up your dirty old rags as well so they're good to go." He held up the plaid shirt Sam had been wearing with a weak grin.

"It's still got blood on it," Sam commented.

"Alright, princess." Dean rolled his eyes. Sam smiled.

"Bitch."

"Jerk."

Dean threw the shirt at him and started pulling on a pair of boots. Sam pushed himself up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, cautiously getting to his feet.

"Get something to eat," their father's voice came from the bathroom as an electric razor whirred into life. "Long journey ahead."

"I saw a Gas-n-Sip just over the road," Dean said to Sam, nodding in the direction. "Hurry up and we'll go."

Sam pulled on a pair of jeans and a fresh shirt and followed him out the door. The boys crossed to the gas station and Dean began to browse the shelves.

"Pie, pie, pie… ah, pie!" Dean found and selected an apple pie, sending a triumphant smirk in Sam's direction.

They ate it on one of the parasoled benches outside. The sun warmed Sam's back as he picked at the pie with his plastic fork. He caught a glimpse of himself in the Gas-n-Sip's sliding doors as a trucker went through. He frowned at his appearance, hair now a close buzz cut. Dean caught the expression on his face.

"Hey, so the hunt last night went bad. So what? Wasn't your fault. Besides, I have it on good authority the ladies prefer the shorter cuts." He smirked again and ruffled what was left of Sam's hair with a stupid grin. Sam pushed his hand away, groaning in protest.

"What?" Dean laughed.

Opening his mouth to retort, a shadow fell across the table and Sam looked up to see John Winchester standing over them.

"Time to go?" Dean asked. Sam looked at the bench wearily and picked at a splinter.

"Yeah. In the car, now."

"Come on, Sammie." Dean got up, pie in hand. "It's huntin' time!" He made a comical impression of the Hulk and followed their father towards the Impala.

"Yeah yeah," Sam muttered under his breath also standing up. "The family business calls…"


End file.
